Ptolemy's Gate by Jonathan Stroud
“Yes. That’s Jenkins. Clive Jenkins. Worked in Internal Affairs with me. Still may do for all I know. Secretary level. Going nowhere. Well, now. This is interesting.”
“You wait.” Her fingers snapped; Mandrake noted their pale pink nail polish, the soft color of her cuticles. The image in the orb restarted: the heads of the two men turned, nodded at each other, looked away. The newcomer, Clive Jenkins, took a sip of beer. His lips moved; half a second later, his voice, tinny and distorted, was audible in the orb.
“Now then, Palmer. Things are moving fast and it’s decision time. We need to know if you’re in, or if you’re out.”
Mr. Palmer took a long drink from his glass. His face gleamed with perspiration, his eyes were never still. He mumbled rather than spoke. “I need more information.”
Jenkins laughed, adjusted his spectacles. “Relax, relax. I’m not going to bite you, Palmer. Information you’ll get. But first we need proof of your good intentions.”
The other man made an odd champing motion with his lips and teeth. “When have I ever given you reason to doubt me?”
“You haven’t. But you haven’t given us much reason to believe in you either. We need proof.”
“How? You mean a test?”
“Of sorts. Mr. Hopkins needs to see your commitment for himself. You could be police for all we know. Working for Devereaux, or that bitch Farrar.” He took another sip of beer. “Can’t be too careful.”
Outside the orb, in another time and another place, John Mandrake looked up at Jane Farrar and raised an eyebrow. She smiled lazily, showing a pointed canine.
“Hopkins …” he began. “You think that’s the same one—”
“The scholar who showed Duvall how to work the golems,” Farrar said. “The missing link of the last conspiracy. Yes, I do. But listen.”
Mr. Palmer was in the middle of a red-faced expostulation, working himself up into an agony of wounded reproach. Clive Jenkins said nothing. Finally Palmer’s tirade finished; he subsided like a limp balloon. “Well, what do you want me to do?” he said. “I’m warning you, Jenkins, you’d better not be setting me up—”
He raised his glass to refresh himself. As he did so, Jenkins seemed to flinch; his patched elbow knocked the other’s arm. The pint glass jerked, beer dashed against the table. Palmer gave a little mew of anger. “You clumsy fool—”
Jenkins offered no apology. “If you do what’s required,” he said, “you’ll reap the rewards along with me and the rest.You’re to meet him … here.”
“When?”
“Then. That’s all. I’m going now.”
Without another word, the slight, ginger-haired man slipped out from behind the trestle table and disappeared from view. For a few minutes Mr. Palmer remained sitting, his red face blank and desperate. Then he too departed.
Ms. Farrar snapped her fingers. The image faded; far in the distance the face of shadows reluctantly returned. Farrar sat back in her chair. “Needless to say,” she said, “Yole failed us. From his vantage point as a mouse he could not see the surface of the table. He did not think that Jenkins had spilled the beer on purpose, nor that he had written the hour and place of meeting in the liquid on the table. Well, Yole followed Palmer for the remainder of the day and saw nothing. That night he reported back to me. While he was so doing, Palmer left his flat and did not come back. Evidently he went to keep his appointment with the mysterious Hopkins.”
John Mandrake tapped his fingers together eagerly. “We shall have to interrogate Mr. Palmer when he returns.”
“Therein lies a problem. At dawn this morning engineers working at the Rotherhithe Sewage Works saw something lying on a midden. They thought at first it was a pile of rags.”
Mandrake hesitated. “Not …”
“I fear so. It was the body of Mr. Palmer. He had been stabbed through the heart.”
“Oh"Mandrake said. “Ah.That’s awkward.”
“It is indeed. But it is promising too.” Jane Farrar passed a hand across the orb; it darkened, became a cold, dull blue. “It means that this Clive Jenkins of yours—and this Hopkins—are planning something big. Big enough to involve quite casual murder. And we’re onto it.” Her eyes gleamed with excitement. Her long black hair was a little disheveled; several wisps fell down across her brow. Her face was flushed, and she was breathing quickly.
Mandrake adjusted his collar slightly. “Why are you telling me this now, outside Council?”
“Because I trust you, John. And I don’t trust any of the others.” She pushed the wisps away from her eye. “Whitwell and Mortensen are both intriguing against us. You know that. We’ve no friends in Council, apart from the PM. If we can flush out these traitors ourselves, our position will be admirably strengthened.”
He nodded. “True. Well, it’s clear what to do. Send a demon to tail Clive Jenkins and see if he can lead us to the truth.”
Ms. Farrar zipped the crystal orb into its bag and stood. “I’ll leave that to you, if I may. Yole’s hopeless and my others are all on assignment. It’s observation only at this stage. You won’t need anything powerful. Or are all your djinn tied up?”
Mandrake looked toward the silent pentacles. “No, no,” he said slowly, “I’m sure I’ll be able to find someone.”
6
I ask you. You fluff a mission, you harass a messenger, and you flatly refuse an order to return. Then you sit back waiting for the magician to respond. And nothing happens. For hours. No summons, no attempted punishment, nothing.
What kind of master do you call that?
If there’s one thing that really annoys me, it’s being ignored. Harsh treatment I can stand, insulting gestures likewise. At least they show you’re having some kind of effect. But just being left to fester as if I were no better than that tuppenny imp in the scrying glass … that makes me more than a little annoyed.
The day was half done by the time I felt the first tweaking in my essence: firm, insistent, like razor wire passing through my vitals. The summons at last! Good—time to go! Not for me any fearful reluctance or holding back. I stood up from the broken chimney, stretched, removed the Concealment upon myself, scared a passing dog, made a rude noise to an old lady in the next garden, and lobbed the chimney as far as I could into the street.1
No more messing about. I was still Bartimaeus of Uruk, al-Arish, and Alexandria. This time I meant business.
I allowed the summons to pull my essence up and away. The street fast disintegrated in a welter of lights and colored bands. A second later these coalesced once more into the shape of a typical summoning hall: striplights on the ceilings, multiple pentacles on the floor. The Information Ministry, as usual. I allowed my body to reform in Kitty Jones’s guise. It was simpler than trying to think of something else.
Right. The cursed Mandrake: where was he?
There! Sitting behind a desk, pen in hand, staring at a wodge of papers laid before him. He wasn’t even glancing in my direction! I cleared my throat, put dainty hands on hips, prepared to speak—
“Bartimaeus!” A gentle voice. Too low to be Mandrake’s. I turned, saw a delicate young woman with vole-brown hair sitting at another desk in a neighboring pentacle. It was Piper, my master’s assistant, today doing her best to be severe. Her forehead was puckered in something resembling a frown; her fingertips were steepled sternly. She eyed me like a cross schoolmistress in a kindergarten. “Where have you been, Bartimaeus?” she began. “You should have returned this morning when requested. Mr. Mandrake has had to exert himself to draw you back, when he is so desperately busy. It isn’t good enough, you know. Your behavior is really becoming most tiresome.”
This wasn’t what I’d had in mind at all. I drew myself up. “Tiresome?” I cried. “Tiresome? Have you forgotten whom you are addressing? This is Bartimaeus here—Sakhr al-Jinni, N’gorso the Mighty, builder of walls, destroyer of empires. I have twenty names and titles in as many tongues and my exploits reverberate in every syllable! Do not attempt to degra
She clicked her tongue. “You simply are being quite impossible today, Bartimaeus. I think you should know better. Now, we have a little job here for you—”
“What? Not so fast!” In the pentacle I gave a half step forward; sparks snapped from my eyes and a nimbus of coral fire trembled upon my skin. “I’ll have things out with Mandrake first!”
“I’m afraid the minister is currently indisposed.”
“Indisposed? Baloney! I can see him right there!”
“He is busy working on today’s news pamphlet. A deadline approaches.”
“Well, he can leave off inventing his lies for a few minutes.2 I want a word.”
Ms. Piper wrinkled her nose. “You can have nothing worthwhile to say to him. Now please attend to your mission.”
I turned away from her; addressed the figure at the desk. “Hoi, Mandrake!” No answer. I repeated myself, only louder. The papers flapped and fluttered on his desk.
The magician ran his hand through his short, cropped hair and looked up with a vaguely pained expression. It was as though he were being called upon to remember an old injury in a sensitive spot. He turned to his assistant. “Ms. Piper, please inform Bartimaeus that I’m not remotely interested in his complaints. Remind him that most masters would have punished him severely for his incompetence in battle and that he is lucky to be alive. That’s all.” He picked up his pen once more.
Ms. Piper opened her mouth to speak, but I was faster. “Please inform that stubble-headed pipsqueak,” I snapped, “that it is imperative he dismiss me on the instant. My powers, while still awesome, are somewhat reduced and need reviving. If he does not agree to this reasonable and just demand, I shall be forced to act, in desperation, against my interests and his own.”
She frowned. “What’s that last bit mean?”
I raised an eyebrow. “He knows.” I turned to Mandrake. “You do know, don’t you?”
He glanced at me. “Yes, obviously.”3 With portentous deliberation, he set down his pen once more. “Ms. Piper,” he said, “please point out to that pernicious demon that should a certain thought of betrayal even flicker across his mind, I will relocate him to the Boston marshes, where every day a dozen djinn are seen to perish.”
“Tell him that this breaks no ice now, buddy. My defenses are so low that I’m liable to perish doing his shopping. What do I lose where it happens?”
“Tell him that he surely exaggerates his weakness. This doesn’t sound like the Bartimaeus who rubbed shoulders with Solomon.”
“And Faustus and Zarbustibal.”
“Faustus, Zarbustibal, whoever. I’m not giving a full list. However, tell him, Ms. Piper, that if he successfully completes the following mission I shall agree to his temporary dismissal for purposes of recuperation, and let him be satisfied with that.”
I sniffed disparagingly. “Tell him that this offer will only be acceptable if the mission is simple, swift, and utterly without danger.”
“Tell him—oh, for heaven’s sake, just tell him what the mission is and have done!”With a flurry of papers and a squeaking of his leather chair, the magician returned to his work. Ms. Piper’s head came to a standstill; it had been swiveling from side to side like a worried owl’s. She rubbed her neck gingerly.
“So get on with it, then,” I said.
She looked a bit hurt by my curt tone, but I was in no mood for niceties. Once again Mandrake had treated me with contempt and derision. Once again he’d ignored my threats and entreaties. For the thousandth time I vowed revenge. Perhaps I should just risk America, go out there and chance my arm in battle. I’d survived such things before. But not when I was anything like as weak as this … No, I’d have to recharge my strength first, and that meant agreeing to this “final” mission. I waited grimly. On the other side of the room I heard Mandrake’s pen go traveling across the paper, scratching out more lies.
Ms. Piper was evidently relieved that the confrontation was over. “Well,” she said, smiling breezily, “I’m sure you’ll find this very simple, Bartimaeus. We wish you to trail a minor magician named Clive Jenkins, keeping track of his every act and movement. Do not allow yourself to be seen or sensed. He is engaged in some kind of conspiracy against the government, and has been involved in murder. Furthermore, we know he is working for the fugitive scholar Hopkins.”
That aroused my interest in a vague sort of way. It had been years since we’d had a lead on him. But I kept Kitty’s face in sullen teenage mode.
“Jenkins: is he strong?”
She frowned. “I don’t think so.”
My master looked up, snorted. “Jenkins? Hardly.”
“He works in Internal Affairs,” Ms. Piper said. “Second level. Has an imp named Truklet. We know that he has been trying to corrupt other low-level magicians; it is not clear why. He is certainly in communication with Clem Hopkins.”
“That’s the priority,” Mandrake said. “Find Hopkins. Don’t act or attack: we know you’re as weak as a weevil, Bartimaeus. Just find out where he is. Also, discover what they’re up to. If you succeed, I’ll—oh, blast it.” The telephone on his desk had rung. He picked up the receiver. “Yes? Oh—hello, Makepeace.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Yes, yes, I’d love to drop by, love to, but I can’t right now. I’m off to Council shortly—in fact I’m late already…. What’s it about? Hmm, hmm, very mysterious. Maybe later this—All right, I’ll try. See you then.” He thumped the phone down. “Got to go, Piper. I’ll finish the Boston siege story over lunch. Send it to you by imp later, all right? We can get it printed for the evening fairs.” He was standing up now, stuffing papers into a briefcase. “Anything else you need to know, Bartimaeus? I don’t mean excuses or whinges; haven’t time for them.”
My version of Kitty gritted her teeth. “What about back-up? If I get to this Hopkins, there’ll be more than an imp guarding him.”
“He’s just a scholar, Bartimaeus. But even if he’s got defenses, we don’t want you to wade in. I can send Cormocodran and the others to deal with him presently, and Ms. Farrar’s got a lot of police on standby. Just report in to me when you’ve got the information. I’ll give you an open-door injunction: you can return to me whenever you’re ready.”
“Where will you be?”
“Westminster Hall this afternoon; Devereaux’s mansion at Richmond through the evening. Tonight, my house.” His briefcase clipped shut; he was eager to depart.
“Where is Jenkins to be found now?”
“Internal Affairs building, sixteen Whitehall. Office at the back. He’s a diminutive, ginger-haired little twerp. Anything else on your mind?”
“You wouldn’t want to hear it.”
“No doubt. One last point, Bartimaeus,” he said. “I’ve given you my word, but you might encourage me to keep it if you drop that particular guise.” He looked at me then, head-on—almost for the first time. “Think about it.” He made a complex sign: the bonds that kept me imprisoned in the circle wrapped themselves about me, spun in opposite directions, and sent me spiraling out into the world.
7
Bartimaeus: By-name of the demon Sakhr al-Jinni, mentioned in Procopius and Michelot. A middle-ranking djinni of ancient standing, great ingenuity, and no little power. First recorded in Uruk; later in Jerusalem. Fought at the battle of al-Arish against the Assyrians. Known masters have included: Gilgamesh, Solomon, Zarbustibal, Heraclius, Hauser.
Bartimaeus’s other names of power include: N’gorso, Necho, Rekhyt.
Linnaean ranking: 6, dangerous. Still extant.
Kitty lowered the book into her lap and stared out of the bus window. From her place on the upper deck she could see the sinews and tendons of the magicians’ rule running up and down the London streets. Night Police strolled among pedestrians, vigilance spheres drifted on every corner, small swift points of light passed far above in the afternoon sky.
She glanced back down at Trismegistus’s Manual, screwed up her eyes at the small crabbed typeface and reread the passage for the umpteenth time. The names Necho and Rekhyt were new to her, but the rest was drearily familiar. The meager list of masters, for instance. Though nothing much was known about the faces of Gilgamesh or Solomon, they were certainly adult kings. Heraclius was a magician-emperor—a warrior, not a child. As for Zarbustibal, she’d located a description of him months ago in an old inventory of Arabian masters: he was renowned about the Red Sea for his hook nose and protruding warts. Hauser had been youthful, right enough, but he was north European, fair and freckled—an engraving in one of Mr. Button’s books had told her so. Not one of them could have been the dark-haired, dark-skinned boy whose guise Bartimaeus was fond of using.
Kitty shook her head, shut the book, and dropped it into her bag. She was probably just wasting time. She should forget her hunch and make the summons anyway.
Lunchtime had come and gone, and the bus was crowded with men and women returning to work. Some spoke together in hushed tones; others, worn-out already, dozed and nodded. A man sitting across the aisle from Kitty was reading the latest installment of Real War Stories, the Information Ministry’s regular account of the war’s progress.The front cover of the pamphlet was decorated by a woodcut; it showed a British soldier running up a hillside, bayonet at the ready. He was noble, determined, a classical statue in motion. At the top of the hill an American rebel cowered, his face contorted with anger, terror, and other unpleasant emotions. He wore an old-style magician’s robe, drawn to seem ludicrous, effeminate. His arms were raised defensively; beside him sat his ally—a minor demon in similar pose. Its face was wizened and wicked; it wore, in miniature, the same clothes as the magician. The British soldier had no demon. A caption below the woodcut read: “Another Boston Triumph.”